


The Unbearable Awfulness of Christmas in London

by Hexqueen517



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Angst, Christmas Fluff, Christmas traditions, M/M, Tripping through history
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:55:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21862564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hexqueen517/pseuds/Hexqueen517
Summary: “In December, the shop went all out with the decorations. It was still hardly ever opened for business, but it was trimmed with every bow and bough for sale in England. It was irritating. It was beautiful. And it was closed off. Just like its owner.”Five times Crowley indignantly suffered through Aziraphale’s Christmas traditions – and one time it wasn’t quite so painful.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 86
Collections: Aziraphale's Library Festive Fic Recs





	1. Chapter 1

**1520 – The Holly and the Ivy**  
  
Windsor Castle was among Crowley’s favorite places in Europe due to the sordid skullduggery, double dealing, and Machiavellian manipulation he engendered in the court of Henry VIII. Officially, his affinity for Windsor Castle was entirely due to the reigning monarch’s tyrannical nature and had absolutely nothing to do with the presence of the angel who performed as Crowley’s Adversary. Officially, the Principality Aziraphale was a nuisance, constantly thwarting his wiles. Crowley was forced to keep a close eye on him by necessity lest all of his pernicious plans be undone. Yes, official necessity. That was all.

Currently, the angel was thwarting his progress across the Great Hall with long, viney ropes of spiky greenery. Aziraphale was dressed as a servant and stood on a small ladder, reeling in a rope of holly that tripped Crowley and sent him sprawling into the filthy rushes.

“Oh!” Aziraphale hurried over. “Oh, Crowley, it’s you. I’m so sorry about that, dear chap. You really must watch where you’re, uh, sauntering.”

Crowley stood and straightened his smoked-lens glasses, reasserting his dignity, which was instantly unasserted when Aziraphale began to brush him off, his soft hands running over Crowley’s velvet doublet and hesitating briefly before skimming the surface of his right thigh to remove a stray twig. The angel’s hands exuded warmth that flared under Crowley’s tight black hose. He stumbled again, catching a foot under the abandoned vine, and had to hold tightly to Aziraphale’s shoulders to stay upright. So very tightly, just for a moment.

They faced each other, gazes locking briefly. The angel’s eyes were soft and merry, his smile creating adorable dimples in his cheeks. Crowley looked away first.

“What’s this, then?” he asked, glaring at the offending greenery. It looked like holly. He knew plants, and he knew holly didn’t come in rope form. On further examination, it was an ivy vine with holly twigs wound around it.

“Angel, this is an unnatural abomination,” he scoffed. “What are you doing?”

“It’s a Christmas decoration.” Aziraphale’s voice chirped like a happy song, and he wiggled a bit as his hands gestured in tune. “I’m making the Great Hall festive.”

“I didn’t think Heaven approved of all this, this –“ He waved an arm at the holly and ivy ropes, and the mulberry candles and gold and silver baubles Aziraphale had piled in a heap on a banquet table. “This debauchery.”

Aziraphale’s expression changed, his lips pursing primly. “Of course they approve. Mightily.”

“Suuuure they do.” He knew what it meant when Aziraphale got defensive.

Aziraphale clasped his hands over his stomach. “It’s a celebration of the birth of Christ. How could Heaven not approve?”

Crowley shrugged. In his experience, the bastards Upstairs could always find a way to make Aziraphale’s life a little more miserable. He pitched his voice to a whisper. “Angel, we were there. This isn’t anywhere near the time of year Jesus was born.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “I wasn’t there. Were you there?”

“No, I didn’t mean there there. I just meant …” He trailed off; Aziraphale knew what he meant. “Wait, you weren’t one of the heavenly host singing to the shepherds?”

“Not much of a voice for the heavenly choir, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale said. Crowley thought that was false modesty. The angel had a lovely voice. Officially, he hated it.

Aziraphale turned away to gather up the trailing ivy. “Well, that was all rather above my pay grade.”

“Hmmph.” He didn’t care for the way Aziraphale was pouting. “Congratulations on foiling me with that crime against nature, I suppose.”

Ah, the smile was back, that smile that could light up an entire castle. “Oh, isn’t it beautiful, though? Just think how the Great Hall will look when the candles are lit.”

Crowley had to admit that the spiky holly leaves were a nuisance, and there were bound to be courtiers allergic to the plant who’d be itching bothersome rashes all night. He was never one to pass up a gratis annoyance. “I suppose I’ll let you have this one. I’ll warn you, though, it will never catch on.”

Aziraphale’s dimples twitched. “We’ll see about that, won’t we?”

**1626 – Caroling**

London had its ups and downs over the centuries, but by the reign of Charles I, fortunes were down again, perhaps more down than ever. A certain demon known to haunt the city considered himself responsible. Why not? Pride had always been one of his best attributes.

And after the disastrous Tepehuan Revolt in New Spain, it had been time for Crowley make himself scarce. Fortunately, there was a heap of trouble brewing with the Puritans in England, and the English court was once again a den of scum and villainy, just the way he liked it. His tendency to return to London when he needed to regroup was almost certainly due to the English character: piratical, self-serving, and oh so hypocritically sanctimonious. Keeping an eye out for his Adversary, who seemed to have a soft spot for the English, was an added bonus. The icing on the cake. The lovely, sugary sweet, and just a bit salty cake.

He stalked the dark streets of St Giles, noting the biting poverty that twisted mens’ minds and cramped their hearts. Dirty children slept in doorways, ignored, trying to cover themselves against the December cold with rags. It should’ve been a sight to refresh a tired demon, but it was too much. Even Hell couldn’t match this misery, wouldn’t fit it to innocent souls. His thoughts leaped ahead to the morning, when he’d figure out where Aziraphale was lodging and make sure the Arrangement was still in effect after his extended stay in the New World. He’d brought back a new drink that was popular with the Spanish called cocoa. It seemed to be the kind of small indulgence that would tempt Aziraphale into sinning just the tiniest bit.

A gang of rough men dressed in somber colors stormed past him, only aware of him as a tingle across the hairs on the back of their necks. They were tearing down wreaths of greenery hanging on doors, faking outrage at the decorations. So, a Puritan gang. Aziraphale wouldn’t be running with them. He liked his pale silks and velvets too much, and his annual decorations and extravagances in the name of Christmas.

Up ahead, a church lit with candles spilled a soft glow through the stained glass onto the filthy slush. Crowley hissed. Sanctified ground – he’d have to go around. As he went to cross the street, though, music rose from the open church door. The tune was gratingly saccharine, but the choir was amazing. He instantly realized why when one voice carried the lyrics as only an angel could. The lilt of the melody made his chest pang. _Not much of a voice for the heavenly choir_ , Aziraphale had told him once, and he’d always known that to be wrong. Or maybe the heavenly choir didn’t appreciate what they had.

The very Earthbound choir that had Crowley pinned in place continued to sing as they filed out of the church. The Puritan gang slunk around a corner as families followed from the church to the street, singing along, Aziraphale trailing behind but using his beautiful voice to keep things going.

“And all the angels in heaven shall sing

On Christmas day, on Christmas day”

It was enough celestial goodwill to bring a tear to Crowley’s eye. A lesser demon would’ve been discorporated on the spot, but he was stronger than that.

“Crowley? Is that you?”

He lifted a hand. “Hullo, angel. What’s this?”

Aziraphale bustled up to him, Christmas cheer radiating from him like heat from a fire. “Isn’t it lovely? This is Christmas caroling! We’re going to go around the neighborhood spreading good cheer.”

Crowley glanced around at the filth of the street dumped from chamber pots and the feral cats licking a man passed out from drink. “This neighborhood? It can’t afford horse dung.”

Aziraphale frowned. “It could use some cheer, don’t you think? The spirit of Christmas should be free to everyone.”

“Pffftt.” Not everyone. Not the unforgivable. “Some men are going about ripping down your greenery, by the way.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “I won’t insult you by asking if you had anything to do with it. Um, back in town for a while?”

Crowley shrugged. “I can’t think of anywhere riper for trouble.”

He would’ve sworn the expression on Aziraphale’s face was fond and amused, not adversarial at all. Christmas always made the angel soft. “Well, if you like,” Aziraphale said, “we could –“

“Mr Fell! Mr Fell!” some snotty little brat yelled. “Catch up!”

Aziraphale put his hand on Crowley’s shoulder, sending shivers of warmth down his arm. “I should go. Have to thwart the evil in mens’ hearts with the love of Christmas, after all.”

“Hmmph. Those Puritan thugs are waiting right around the corner for you.”

“Oh, thank you for the warning.” Aziraphale winked. “I think we’ll be fine.”

Crowley almost hissed again. He wasn’t supposed to be helping this insanity along. What if someone from Downstairs was watching? Aziraphale skipped ahead, and Crowley, trying to make up lost ground, called out after him. “Marching about in the cold singing like madmen? It’ll never catch on, angel.”

Aziraphale was never easily discouraged. “Time will tell, won’t it?” he called back.

**1791 – Spiked Eggnog**

Crowley knew all the most dangerous places in London. The docks, the Scottish neighborhoods, the worst of the pubs crawling with men who would kill their own grandmothers for a few pounds and a gallon of gin, the grand townhouses where women abused by their husbands in turn abused their helpless servants. Yet he found himself standing in the entrance of the most dangerous spot in London, hesitating, gripped with uncertainty. It was especially bad this time of year. The glazed front window of A.Z. Fell and Co. was crammed full of holly, pine boughs, and candles. Anyone wishing to buy a book would find the front door closed to them, unless it was a book about Christmas.

This was the only door in the world that was always open to Crowley – and it might stay that way as long as he didn’t get too needy and abuse the privilege.

He shook off his indecision and pushed inside, bringing in a gust of frigid air and flurries. Inside was worse than the display window. It looked like a small forest had exploded. Aziraphale, his Adversary—

Oh, who was he trying to fool with Adversary, himself? He knew why he was here. He was cold, and he’d spread that coldness throughout Europe, freezing ruling classes from noticing the plight of their poorest subjects. And now he craved forbidden warmth. He’d been away from it too long.

Aziraphale was humming one of those blessed Christmas carols, but he stopped when the door clicked shut. His welcoming smile broke something inside Crowley, something important that he probably couldn’t function without, but it always did. And he kept coming back.

“Crowley!” For all the world, Aziraphale looked ecstatic to see him. It should’ve felt like enough, more than he deserved. But demons are selfish and greedy things.

“How was the Continent?” Aziraphale asked as Crowley settled himself in a chair in a dark corner where he could stare from behind his glasses to his heart’s content.

“Cold.” He cleared his throat. “What have you got there, angel?”

Aziraphale had been fussing over a large punch bowl of cut glass ringed with matching crystal glasses. He did love the finer things, his angel. “Oh, you’ll like this. It’s a new Christmas treat from the independent colonies in America.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “The United States, they’re called now. Expecting company?”

Aziraphale’s blinding smile dimmed for just a moment. “No, no. I just wanted to do it properly, even if it’s just me.” His eyelashes fluttered up at Crowley, whose heart stopped. “But now you’re here! How opportune. We can try it together.”

He watched Aziraphale ladle out a goopy, cream colored substance into a glass. It looked absolutely disgusting. But that didn’t take away from the fact that Aziraphale was serving him.

He licked his lips, realized he was doing it, and pulled his tongue in quickly before Aziraphale could see. “No, er, angelic visitors to Earth this December? I thought this was the busy season.”

“Oh, well.” And the subject was dropped, and Aziraphale was off on a tangent about his latest Christmas enthusiasm. “Do you know, George Washington served this last Christmas? This is the exact recipe. I used fresh cream and fresh milk and egg whites. It’s called eggnog.”  
  
“Ugh, sounds ghastly.” He couldn’t smell it without sticking out his forked tongue, and he wasn’t going to do that any more than he would take off his dark glasses. He’d have to swallow it anyway. He lifted the crystal cup in a toast. “Bottoms up.”

It was undoubtedly the most disgusting, vile thing Crowley had ever tasted, and thanks to Aziraphale, he had tasted an international range of revolting things through time, from marinated guinea pigs to thousand-year eggs to fermented herring. His throat spasmed as he gagged down mankind’s latest contribution to nausea.

“Angel, do you mean to discorporate me without warning?” he snapped. “Is there holy water in this?”

Aziraphale blushed. “No, certainly not!” he said indignantly. “It can’t be that bad.”

Actually, now that Crowley had it down, the eggnog had a pleasant, warming aftertaste. “Ehh, is that rum in there?”

“Yes, Jamaican rum, brandy, rye whiskey, and sherry.” Aziraphale poured himself a cupful. “I thought it would be up in your alley, as they say.”

“Nobody would say that.”

“Oh, well, happy Christmas.” Aziraphale raised his glass in a toast before taking a sip. His mouth curled in disgust. “Ugh, that’s … ooh, perhaps the milk was a bad idea.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. Honestly, who wished a demon a happy Christmas? In a toast, no less. One would have to be either incredibly devious or incredibly generous of spirit.

He waved an arm at the excessive garland draping the shelves. “So you really weren’t at the first Christmas?”

Aziraphale sighed. “No, I was in China. A lot going on in the Far East that year.”

“Hmmmph.”

It didn’t sit right with him that they’d made Aziraphale witness the crucifixion all alone but hadn’t let him be there for Jesus’s birth. Although, come to think of it, Aziraphale hadn’t been completely alone at Golgotha. He’d been there, too. Probably best not to mention that.

The alcohol was thawing him from head to toe. Just the alcohol, he was practically sure of it. He tried to take another sip of the eggnog, but this time, his tongue caught the scent. “Angel, this is one Christmas treat that is never going to catch on.”

“I fear you may be right,” Aziraphale said. “Care for straight rum instead?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”


	2. Chapter 2

**1845 – Oh, Christmas Tree**

He hoped Aziraphale was still speaking to him. Not that the Potato Famine had been Crowley’s fault. It had been awful timing, both of them being in Ireland while Famine, that wanker, stalked the countryside. Well, Aziraphale received his orders just as Crowley did. Someone had wanted them both there, and Crowley would’ve bet everything he owned that Famine was behind it. He pushed the door to the bookshop carefully, as if it would be warded against demons. But it wasn’t. The door gave to his touch instantly. He froze on the threshold, waiting for Aziraphale to toss him out on the street.

“Crowley! Come in,” Aziraphale called out. 

Crowley tried to relax his tense muscles and glide in, but he tripped over his own feet. He reached out for purchase and snatched at a gold paper garland, ripping it off the wall. He got his other arm out just in time, steadying himself against a bookshelf instead of hitting the floor face first.

Of course, that was exactly when Aziraphale bustled out of the back room. “Why are you tearing down my Christmas decorations, fiend?”

“Gah, I’m not – why do you have so much blessed crap?” he said, hearing the annoyance in his voice. 

He hadn’t meant for his first words to Aziraphale after Ireland to be so obnoxious, but too late now. And the angel had way too much of everything stuffed into the shop. Even though it was larger inside than it appeared from the street, the space wasn’t infinite. Aziraphale had seemingly purchased every Christmas-themed gewgaw the piratical merchants of London had hastily invented. Every shelf had a gilded angel or nativity scene, every wall was draped with colored paper, and to complete the picture, a gramophone cranked out “O Come All Ye Faithful.” A weaker demon would’ve run away screaming in pain. A stronger demon would’ve had the sense not to come to the bookshop at all.

Aziraphale frowned at the torn gold paper. “I didn’t ask you to come here and criticize my décor.”

So this visit was going swimmingly. “Still angry about Galway, are we?”

Aziraphale glared at him. Bless it, he should leave before this degenerated into arguing. Dagon and Hastur had made it clear they were waiting for him to screw up – he wasn’t going to risk his position in Hell for the sake of a row. Only his feet wouldn’t take him out the door. The problem, he reflected not for the first time, was glaciers. They kept moving, only it was so slowly, nobody realized how far they’d moved until afterwards. Something like that was happening with him and Aziraphale. But if he pointed it out, he was sure he’d be met with a century or two of the silent treatment. 

And how would he point it out anyway? Just casually drop something into conversation such as “Oh, yeah, so did you notice it takes fewer and fewer years for me to need to come back here every time I leave, like some sort of descending spiral centering around you like the North Star?” He could imagine Aziraphale turning pale as bone before ordering him out of the shop. Presumptuous demon.

He leaned against the bookshelf and crossed his arms over his chest. Aziraphale shook his head and tutted, the click of his tongue somehow managing to convey a thousand lifetimes of disappointment.

“You know it was the humans, right?” Crowley said, struggling not to sound defensive. “It’s always the humans.” Well, almost always. 

Aziraphale waved it off. “I know starving children isn’t exactly your style.” Then he lifted an eyebrow, and Crowley thought he saw a sparkle of something in his eyes. “What I don’t know is how you managed to stay in Ireland in the first place.”

He really should’ve seen that coming. “Patrick was a nasty piece of work. Figures your side claimed him.”

“Still, to be banished from an entire island.” Aziraphale’s tut tut managed to sound sarcastic. “You must have done something particularly awful.”

“An entire island, really? There are plenty of bigger islands in the world.”

“Was it like stepping on sanctified ground while you were there?” He didn’t even smile. Anyone who didn’t know Aziraphale well would think he was merely curious. Perfect bastard.

“I remember the days when you used to get soft around Christmas,” he muttered. “I see that’s changed.”

Aziraphale gasped. Crowley thought it was performative, but apparently it was genuine. “Here it is almost the 25th, and I haven’t even offered you a drink. What was I thinking?” He rubbed his hands together. “Now, tea or straight to the wine? I have a lovely bottle from Bordeaux I’ve been saving for the season.”

“Bordeaux sounds perfect.” It was a little early for alcohol, but tea did nothing to dim the angel’s brilliance. What was Crowley supposed to do if he asked why he’d darkened his doorstep? He couldn’t answer that question even to himself.

He followed Aziraphale into the back room, which somehow managed to be even more crowded than the front. He snaked around stacks of books. The smell of fresh pine perked up the dusty atmosphere, and he realized that the centerpiece of the room was a round table topped with an actual tree. It was about two feet tall, and someone had shoved candles and some particularly inedible looking candies into its branches. He couldn’t stop a laugh from bubbling out.

“What in the name of Hell is that?” he said.

Aziraphale’s face lit up. “It’s a Christmas tree. It’s all the rage in Germany.”

“You mean to tell me people are cutting down trees, dragging them into their homes, and putting candles in them? It’ll be a bumper crop of house fires this winter.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Aziraphale’s expression frosted over. “It’s perfectly safe,” he said, against all common sense. “And it looks beautiful with the candles glowing.”

“House fires are quite lovely, yes.” He was pushing his luck, but this was definitely a hazard. It was practically something Hell should encourage.

“For the love of … “ Aziraphale was back to glaring. “Why do you hate Christmas so much? Is it some sort of demonic contractual obligation?”

“What – I don’t – why do you think – “ He stopped and tried to recenter himself. Aziraphale’s accusation had thrown him off balance. “I’m fine with Christmas. People drink too much and argue with their families and feel disappointed afterward. Lots of opportunities for menace all around.”

He somehow felt this wasn’t what Aziraphale was asking and wasn’t surprised when he was handed the bottle and the glass instead of Aziraphale pouring for him. Was he supposed to decorate and sing carols? Not even angels did that. Present company excepted, of course. Aziraphale was always the exception to the rules.

“I don’t hate Christmas,” he said in a low grumble. “I don’t know what else you want me to tell you. Demon, remember?” A poor excuse for a demon plagued by thoughts of glaciers and shrinking spirals who was feeling the hot breath of his bosses on the back of his neck too much lately. It was no time to go around celebrating Christmas.

“How about you keep your mouth closed while you admire my pretty Christmas tree,” Aziraphale said testily. This was all Ireland’s fault, Crowley just knew it. 

The Christmas tree was dropping needles faster than a delirious seamstress. Aziraphale hadn’t watered it, apparently. “I don’t know what they’re drinking over in Germany, but this has to be the worst idea they’ve had since homeopathy.”

“You’re going to tell me it will never catch on,” Aziraphale said, “aren’t you?”

“Catch on fire maybe.” He did his best to ignore that mischievous spark in Aziraphale’s eyes. “Stop acting like I’m predictable.”

Aziraphale lifted his glass. “Merry Christmas, world’s most unpredictable demon.”

He simply couldn’t fight the smile off his face. “Right back at you, world’s most unpredictable angel. Now, may I ask for a Christmas indulgence?”

“Yes, please take advantage of my generous holiday spirit, I beg you. What is it?”

Crowley threw back half the contents of his glass in one gulp. “Water that tree before you burn down half of London.”

**1920 – Electric lights**

Crowley usually arranged his life to take him far away from London in late December. Too many memories had accumulated. Too many things he wanted that he was never going to have. Every wreath trimmed with a red tartan bow was like a stake through the heart. Of course, demons were supposed to feel that way about Christmas trimmings, so he was now made over in the image of the Hasturs and Ligurs of the universe. Bah humbug indeed.

It got worse every year. People couldn’t stop piling up tradition after tradition. Wasn’t the whole thing about tradition, the aspect that was definitional, the fact that it never changed? That was humans for you, insisting on “carrying on tradition” while they were busy altering the bloody concept. Now there were huge Christmas dinners and visits from Santa Claus and cards to send in the mail to keep in touch with old acquaintances. Crowley prided himself on keeping up with human progress – excepting one month out of the year.

Unfortunately, Lord Beelzebub had ordered him to winter in London this year to corrupt Parliament. As if Parliament needed his help to be corrupted. A few pounds, some cocaine-laced wine, and a pretty young face, and Crowley’s reports for the next decade wrote themselves. As if people ever needed any help stabbing each other in the back. There had just been an entire world war, one so ugly Crowley hadn’t thought people capable of it, and ministers were still stockpiling increasingly deadly weapons while trying to turn a profit from it. But he couldn’t go around ignoring Beelzebub’s orders, no matter how useless they were.

He wasn’t just in London for Christmas, he was in London for Christmas and he was bored to tears. People’s inborn depravity had made him redundant. Depressed. Discouraged. Lonely.

Brisk walks were supposed to help, but they kept bringing him past a particular bookshop that hadn’t seemed to change over the years. Although in December, the shop went all out with the decorations. It was still hardly ever opened for business, but it was trimmed with every bow and bough for sale in England. It was irritating. It was beautiful. And it was closed off. Just like its owner.

Crowley was coincidentally strolling past the shop near sunset when the owner walked out backwards, unspooling a green rope. It forced a memory of holly and ivy, candles and courtiers, simpler days when it had all seemed to make sense. Crowley peered through his glasses, but the angel was real, and persisting in his efforts to hang a string of something in the store window. Crowley’s throat closed up. Maybe he could get away with watching unobserved if he didn’t move or make a sound.

“Crowley? Heavens, is that you? In December?”

“Hullo, angel.” 

He wasn’t sure if he’d been defeated or not. Hadn’t he been secretly hoping to be noticed? But this was going to hurt afterwards, he knew it. He didn’t think he could stand that kind of pain. It would be better, cleaner, to let Hell torture him the old-fashioned way.

Aziraphale’s broad smile made it clear the angel was particularly happy to see him. He wondered if anyone else got that smile of welcome. Who was he kidding? Probably everyone did, from the greengrocer to the milkman. But, as usual, Aziraphale was celebrating the season alone.

“I can’t tell you how good it is to see you in town,” Aziraphale said, wiggling a little in a way that made Crowley feel his face flush. “Take a look at what I just bought!”

He motioned to the shop window, and the length of cord he’d been attempting to hang. Crowley shrugged. “Wire? How, eh, nice?”

“It’s a string of electric lights! The first in the neighborhood.” Aziraphale rubbed his hands together. “I thought when I purchased them what a shame it was that you wouldn’t see them, you’re always telling me about the wonders of electricity. And here you are! Serendipity, wouldn’t you say?”

“Not unless you have a single-malt scotch convenient, I wouldn’t.” Serendipity! God viewed Crowley’s existence as a cruel, extended practical joke, didn’t She?

“Oh, you.” Aziraphale twinkled at him. Crowley gritted his teeth together. 

“Now, how do you suppose these lights turn on?”

“You have to plug them in, angel.” 

“Really?” Aziraphale examined the brick façade. “Into what, do you think?”

Oh, for someone’s sake. He heaved a put-upon sigh. “Fine. I’ll do it. You can owe me.”

He magicked up an outlet and plugged in the end of the light string. Aziraphale’s intake of breath was audible and awed. Crowley looked up. Small white fairy lights twinkled like distant stars, reflected in Aziraphale’s sky blue eyes. It was gorgeous. The angel’s expression of wonder as he stared at the lights was one Crowley knew he’d commit to eternal memory.

“Do you think this one will catch on, dear boy?” Aziraphale said in a soft voice.

“Eh, probably not. Hard to say, though.” He couldn’t believe his voice could sound so normal while he was shattering into so many sharp pieces. He couldn’t do this any more. He just couldn’t.

Aziraphale shook himself out of his thoughts. “Well, let’s see about getting you that scotch.”

Crowley took a deep breath. “I don’t think so. Busy and all.”

It had to be done. Grief was kinder than hope. Grief eventually has an end, but the pain of hope goes on and on and on. Demons knew that better than anyone. It was time to stop hoping. Aziraphale bit his lip and his gaze darted to the ground so Crowley almost missed the heartbreak in his eyes. A weaker demon would throw himself to the pavement and grovel for forgiveness. A stronger demon would wave goodbye and saunter away as if he had plenty of people to spend Christmas with. Crowley stood there like a lamppost.

Aziraphale looked up at him through his eyelashes and pouted. Oh no, no, that would kill him if he kept staring. He had to keep telling himself that grief was kinder than hope. 

His apparent resistance to the angel’s puppy dog expression made Aziraphale blink a few times. Then his face clouded over. “Oh, I see. You don’t hate Christmas,” Aziraphale said. “You hate spending Christmas with me.”

“See you around, angel.” He didn’t stop staring, he didn’t start walking.

Aziraphale nodded. “Maybe some other time then.” His shoulders seemed stooped as he re-entered his shop. Alone.

The blinking lights in the shop window formed stars on the sidewalk that kept disappearing and reappearing. Crowley watched them extinguish themselves over and over. “Merry Christmas,” he said under his breath. Nobody replied, but he didn’t expect anyone could hear him.

**2019 – The Gift Exchange**

Aziraphale had pulled out all the stops this year. Beginning December 1, at least seven kinds of cookies were laid out at teatime daily. Crowley’s favorites were the nutmeg and ginger ones, sweet but just a bit spicy. Aziraphale had altered his traditional greeting to potential shop customers from “We’re closed!” to “We’re closed for the holidays, cheers!” And they’d both decided the Christmas concert at the Royal Festival Hall was a must see.

The tree in the shop’s front window had to be two meters tall, draped with lights of every color blinking completely out of order. As he parked the Bentley in front of the shop after the concert, the sight of the multicolored lights almost made Crowley gasp. He turned to Aziraphale in the passenger seat, and the angel smiled at him and rested his hand on Crowley’s arm.

“Wasn’t that a beautiful performance?” Aziraphale said, his voice resonant with contentment. “I can’t believe we’ve never seen the London Symphony’s Christmas show before.”

Crowley smiled back before going around to open the passenger door. The tickets to the charity Christmas performance had been almost impossible to get, for mortals. Crowley and Aziraphale had miraculously come into a handful of tickets to give away to aspiring teen musicians, and there wasn’t anyone looking over their shoulders to judge them for it.

Inside, the shop was warm enough to please a cold-blooded snake. Gifts in shiny gold and silver paper were piled under the tree, with labels made out to Warlock, Adam, Pepper, Brian, and Wensleydale. Crowley had shaken every package at least three times. 

“This had better not be a sensible Oxford shirt,” he said, shaking a rectangular box labeled with Adam’s name.

“You said I could buy anything I wanted as long as all the presents weren’t books,” Aziraphale said. “And it’s not a shirt, either.”

Crowley grinned. “A mystery! You’re a hard one to predict.” He circled Aziraphale, who raised his eyes to the ceiling in fake exasperation. “I don’t want to guess. Tell me what it is.”

“No. It’s a surprise.” Aziraphale’s smile was luminous.

“But it’s not a surprise for me, it’s for Adam,” Crowley said reasonably.

“Don’t use that tempting drawl on me, my dear. I know you can’t keep a secret.”

“Whaatt! Vile calumny! I kept the existence of the Antichrist secret, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you waited a whole hour to tell me, and only because you’d done your thingy to the mobile phones,” Aziraphale said, displaying the technical genius he was known for. 

Crowley grabbed one his hands, letting warmth spread up his arm. “Secrets from you don’t count, do they?”

Aziraphale’s eyes filled with unshed tears. “No, there shouldn’t be any more secrets.” He squeezed Crowley’s hand. “Oh, except for one.”

Aziraphale glanced under the tree almost flirtatiously. Crowley reeled him in closer, pulling on his hand, to whisper in his ear, “I know ways to get you to reveal your secrets.”

“Do you?”

Crowley took a deep breath. “Tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me.”

“My, that is devious. Alright, it’s the box with the red paper and the tartan bow.”

Crowley actually squeeed with anticipation as he pitched the other gifts out of the way so he could find the one addressed to him and give it a good shake. It didn’t make a sound. “Can I open it now?”

Aziraphale pouted, but Crowley could tell he didn’t mean it and was struggling to look out of sorts. “But it’s not even Christmas Eve,” Aziraphale said. 

They’d rented a place in Tadfield for the day itself, and Crowley didn’t want to open his present from Aziraphale in front of other people. Not that Crowley was afraid he’d cry in front of Adam. He probably would cry, but Adam could use the lesson. Still, he felt strongly that after centuries of observation and supervision, he and Aziraphale had earned some privacy.

He approached Aziraphale from behind and draped his arms over his shoulders, leaning his head down to rest on his warm neck. 

“Fine,” Aziraphale relented. “But let’s do this right. You put on some music, and I’ll fetch us a bottle of something scrumptious.”

Once the carols were playing at a soft volume and the port had been decanted and poured, Aziraphale settled on the couch. Crowley sat on the floor between his legs, where he removed the tartan bow from his gift and placed it on Aziraphale’s knee. Then he tore open the wrapping to reveal a plain white cardboard box. 

“The mystery deepens,” he said. Aziraphale sipped his port and tried to look inscrutable, but his wide grin gave him away.

Crowley opened the box to find layers of red and white tissue paper. So many layers of wrappings, it was like unspooling his angel from his layers of clothing. He pulled out the sheets of tissue paper out one by one, enjoying the suspense. The black cashmere this revealed was soft as feathers under his fingers. The oversized scarf was large enough to wrap around his upper torso, but in case that wasn’t enough tactile decadence, there were matching mittens. So warm, so soft, just like Aziraphale. He wrapped himself in the scarf like it was an embrace. Yup, he’d called it, he was crying.

Aziraphale leaned down and nuzzled their cheeks together. “Merry Christmas. I hope you like it?”

“Bastard, you know I do.” He jumped up and crashed onto the couch next to Aziraphale. “Your turn.”

Aziraphale attempted to look surprised that Crowley had gotten him a present, forming a too-perfect O with his mouth, as if Crowley didn’t bring him presents all the time. This one was a bit special, though, so all he could do was laugh at Aziraphale’s mock amazement. 

He took the velvet box from his jacket’s inner pocket. It was thin but as long as his hand, and its corners had been poking him all night. For a moment, nerves overtook him. Perhaps he’d overstepped the boundaries they were still relitigating between them by presenting Aziraphale with a jewelry box. But one look at Aziraphale calmed his incipient panic. 

“Oh, Crowley,” he sighed, and Crowley wondered if maybe he should’ve been more daring in his jewelry selection and picked out a ring instead of a necklace. Well, there was always next year.

Aziraphale opened the box and gasped. He lifted out the gold chain and let the charm rest in the palm of his hand, an infinity sign that, if examined closely, was a snake eating its tail.

“This is the most beautiful Christmas present I’ve ever received,” he said quietly. 

Suddenly, there was a lump in Crowley’s throat he couldn’t swallow. What if … What if this was the only Christmas present Aziraphale had received? The thought was so painful, it was all he could do to offer Aziraphale a shaky smile. He’d known for over a thousand years how much Christmas meant to Aziraphale. Why hadn’t he been kinder? Had he been cruel out of some misplaced obligation to Hell?

Before he could obsess, Aziraphale enveloped him in a hug. He let his tears fall on Aziraphale’s shoulder and while the angel whispered thanks and other gentle reassurances. Then he insisted on wearing his necklace right away, tucking it under his collar after Crowley latched the clasp.

“It will be right by my heart, always,” he said. His angel was so sappy.

They watched the Christmas lights on the tree wink on and off, the music lulling them into something that could only be called peace on Earth. Crowley reached out and took Aziraphale’s hand.

And just when it was too overwhelmingly sweet, Aziraphale said, “It’s been so kind of you submit to all my Christmas traditions this year. I know so few of them catch on for more than a season or two.”

“Yes, very funny, angel. Just try to wiggle out of giving me a Christmas present next year and see what happens.”

He was still working his way up to saying nice things out loud, but he couldn’t help thinking that he was in the very best place in the universe to spend Christmas, with the very best company. And that there was no pressure to make this one perfect. There were many more Christmases here to come, and many more traditions to discover.

**Author's Note:**

> However you celebrate the holidays, I hope it's wonderful!


End file.
